Wednesday, January 28, 2015

P-O-P is not what you think....

Life as a mom is not glamorous.  I'm pretty sure no tv film crew is showing up anytime soon to tape the reality of me carpooling, doing homework & don't forget my personal favorite: cleaning unmentionables.  Let's just give you yesterday's scenario: The weather couldn't be any nicer so I decided to take Kimball and Taylor to the park after school.  We tried out a new park and even had some friends meet us.  I actually played basketball with the kids, passed the volleyball with Taylor, pushed Kimball on the swing and patted myself on the back for actually playing with them.  Now I was ready to sit on the park bench and chill with my friend....  that lasted about 4 minutes.  And then I heard it. "P-O-P mom!"  I see Kimball across the play ground walking with an unusual swagger and a crooked smile.  Hmmm, he wants a drink?  I'm noticing his walk is more like a careful wooden leg limp now.  "P-O-P mom, that spells poop!"  What the heck?  Is he saying he pooped his pants?  Is he actually yelling this from across the crowded park?  Is he actually smiling?  Note to self:  Teach Kimball how to spell.  This is so not cool.  I'm beyond grossed out.

My friend is the sweet mom.  You know-the kind of mom who is more worried about the child than the one who actually has to clean up the crap.  Literally, I have to clean up crap people.  I remind her of this as she says, "Oh, poor Kimball."  "Poor Kimball???  Poor me!  I'm the one dealing with this!"

I quickly grab the balls and water bottles and start hiking to the car.  I barely glance back to see if the stinker is following me.  My friend again is worried about the 6 yr old who I shall now refer to as Mr. Skidmark.  "Should we help carry him?" she asks.  "Walk faster!" I yell.  "Don't get down wind of him!"  I'm leaving everyone in the dust at this point.  Mr Skidmark is now walking carefully, trying to avoid it running down his leg.

We make it to the car where he is instructed to lay on his stomach.  The warm January is not doing us any favors as we are now trapped in a steamy car with POP man.  I roll down the windows and Taylor and I hang our heads out of the car like trapped dogs panting for fresh air as we drive home.  Oh no, a stop light.  Let the dry heaving begin.  Stagnant air is not our friend.  The a/c is on recirculate, which is also not our friend.  I'm pretty sure there was a cloud of smoke resembling a nuclear bomb escaping out the open windows as two bobble heads gagged & choked for fresh air.

I won't go into the fun process of what entails when cleaning that up, but I will tell you it involved a new game of "find the missing turd".  Let's just say the winner really regrets winning that one!

They say you have to wear a lot of "hats" when you're a mom, but really you should be more concerned with wearing gloves.  Who knew I would need to buy rubber gloves in bulk when I became a mom?